


taken by the wind

by malicegeres



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Also A/C is mentioned as well as Aziraphale and his Victorian gays, Also Some Riverdale Characters Mentioned, Canon-Typical Cannibalism, Crossover, Funny, Gen, I'm An Extremely Casual CAOS Fan So Apologies to Real Fans of the Show, Satanism, This Is Deeply Tongue in Cheek, This Pokes Some Fun But With Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malicegeres/pseuds/malicegeres
Summary: On a business trip to America, Crowley encounters the Church of Night and remembers exactly how much he hates Satanists. A Chilling Adventures of Sabrina/Book Omens crossover.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 129





	taken by the wind

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just dicking around here. Again, apologies to all Sabrina fans, your show is very fun and I am absolutely faking my way through it and probably setting this before/durimng the events of Part 2. It's also around Riverdale Season 3 I guess. You know, mob Archie.

If Crowley was embarrassed by Satanists, he was downright humiliated by the witches of the Church of Night. 

He’d had a quick errand in Riverdale involving some mob spillover from New York that he really only bothered with to get one, single phone app he was working on off the ground, and he’d hoped that would be the end of it. Then, thanks to his rotten luck, a Greendale witch spotted him when he stopped at a diner called Pop’s Chock’Lit Shoppe for a burger and one of these shakes he kept hearing about.

He recognized what she was immediately. Not from any supernatural sixth sense or feeling of infernal kinship, but from all the product in her hair and the clashing vintage clothes that would have horrified even Aziraphale. Not to mention the fervent, pious look on her face as she approached Crowley. He sighed. 

The witch sat down across from him. “Are you an angel of our Dark Lord?” she whispered, her heavily-lined eyes wide with unholy awe and mischief.

Crowley stared up at her a moment, trying not to cringe too openly. “Can you imagine if I wasn’t and you’d interrupted some stranger’s lunch with that?” he asked with all the glibness he could muster. He tossed a chip into his mouth. 

The girl smiled. “Well, thank Satan I was right. And thank Satan you’re here.”

He faked a smile and stuffed his mouth with several more chips. Why these witches insisted on thanking Satan for everything, he didn’t know. _Satan_ hadn’t spent an evening being glared at by an excessively muscular ginger whose brain had probably been obliterated by years of American football while Crowley practically begged a mob boss to fund his new friend-rating app. Maybe _Crowley_ deserved a little gratitude, for once. He swallowed his chips. “I’m just passing through for a quick job is all.”

The girl leaned conspiratorially over the table. “Well, as long as you’re passing through,” she said in a low voice, “I’m sure our High Priest would be honored to host the Serpent who toppled the False God’s Paradise on Earth.”

“Ixnay on the Erpentsay,” hissed Crowley, who had just spent a night getting acquainted with the needlessly complicated politics of this quaint American town’s criminal underbelly and who didn’t want Goonies or Northsiders or whoever mistaking him for a member of the South Side Serpent gang. He gave the diner a quick glance. No one seemed to have noticed anything except for a boy wearing a crown-shaped beanie who was staring at him from over a laptop screen. 

“Forgive me, my lord. But, really, it would be such a blessing for us.”

Crowley forced his smile wider. “Right. Only I was headed back down to New York, actually. I’m just in for a bite.”

The girl tried a different tack and pouted at him, childlike. “Please? It would make all of us at the Academy of Unseen Arts so very happy.”

Crowley really only worked with the mortal humans, so he knew almost nothing of witch customs except that they made him intensely uncomfortable, but a demon had to spend time with witches every so often. Hell had so few humans who served them willingly, and if Crowley reported favorably on the Church of Night he’d get brownie points for doing his duty to maintain Hell’s strongholds on Earth. It was a bit like a human going to see their ailing conservative aunt for their mum’s sake. You just had to grin and bear it and not bring up Brexit. 

“Alright,” he relented, “I’ll pay your lot a visit. What was your name?”

“Dahlia Darkthorn, my lord,” said the girl, puffing out her chest. 

Crowley wiped his chip-greased hand on a napkin and held it out to shake. “Anthony Crowley.”

Dahlia Darkthorn shook his hand, squinting at him. “‘Anthony’?”

Bugger. “Force of habit, I work with mortals a lot. Just Crowley is fine.”

She smiled. “Very well, Master Crowley. I’ll take you to the Academy of Unseen Arts.” And then she squeezed his hand and muttered some words, and suddenly they were standing in the grand foyer of a great, windowless building with a statue of Baphomet right in the center. She let go of his hand. 

“Oh,” said Crowley, blinking once. He’d been rather enjoying his lunch, and after a moment of deliberation he realized it would have been rude to his new hosts to manifest the remainder of it as he met the leaders of this church. With a regretful wave of his other hand behind his back, he made certain that enough cash was waiting on the table to cover his meal and the tip. Then he frowned at the statue. “That looks familiar. Haven’t they got one of those in Detroit?”

Dahlia’s lip curled with distaste. “The mortal Satanic Temple. A mockery of our ways, my lord.”

“Right. Total mockery,” said Crowley. He followed the Satanic Temple on Twitter, actually. They didn’t seem to be Satanists in the classical sense, and some of their clapbacks were pretty funny. He looked around. “Which way to the High Priest?”

“This way,” said the girl, and she led him up the stairs. 

The High Priest was, to put it mildly, a liar and a toady. When the girl entered his office, he hardly looked up from the work he was probably only pretending to do. “This had better be important." 

“Lord Blackwood,” said Dahlia, “I’ve brought somebody I thought you might like to meet. The demon Crowley.”

At this, the man pulled off his reading glasses and slowly lifted his head. He looked Crowley up and down, his face hard with skepticism, and them looked to the girl. “Really?” he asked flatly. “ _This_ is the Serpent of Eden?”

Behind his shades, Crowley snuck a good glare at the man. Dahlia was a bit of a pest, but ultimately she was just a kid doing what her rubbish religion dictated she ought to do. He stepped forward and pulled off his shades. “Yes,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Really.”

The transformation was instantaneous. It was to the point where Crowley wondered if it wasn’t a little performative, and if it was, why he would choose to be so obvious about it. Lord Blackwood sat up straight in his chair, spreading his hands gracefully across the table as though to display the delicate lace trim at his wrists, and then he stood. “Master Crowley,” he said in a reverent tone. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“Miss Darkthorn’s good manners,” he replied. “I was in the area on business, and she recognized me and invited me here. She’s a remarkable young woman and a testament to the Academy of, er…” He looked helplessly Dahlia. 

“Unseen Arts, my lord,” she provided cheerfully. 

“Unseen Arts, thank you.” He gave the High Priest a sharp smile. "Now, she's done her part. How are _you_ going to welcome me, Lord Blackwood?"

The High Priest returned his smile. "A banquet on the Black Sabbath. It's been too long since we've had cause for celebration. Nobody's had a reason to celebrate since the Antipope last visited our humble church."

Crowley couldn't help blurting out, "We've got an Antipope? What the hell have we got an Antipope for?"

Lord Blackwood made a valiant effort at resisting a look of disgust. It wasn't a successful effort, but Crowley appreciated the attempt. "To allow us to commune directly with the Dark Lord, Master Crowley. We aren't all so blessed with a direct line to Hell as you are."

"Ah," he said. "Right. It's Friday. So a banquet tomorrow night, then?" Well. That wasn't too long a stay.

"If you would like, I can introduce you to some of the more favored members of our coven and... make a selection. An off-season Queen of the Feast, if you will."

Crowley furrowed his brow. "Oh. Oh is this, er, one of your lot's cannibalism things?"

“I would think it wouldn't be cannibalism for you, my lord."

Until that moment, in six thousand years of interacting with humans, Crowley honestly hadn't given the idea more than passing consideration. Not that he wanted to start thinking of it that way now. He grimaced. "That's really not necessary. The Dark Lord needs all of you to do His bidding, after all, and I really try not to be in the habit of eating humans. Don't want to risk undoing my hard work because I got a little peckish, eh?"

Lord Blackwood’s face grew even more skeptical. "Very wise, my lord. The preparations will begin at once."

"Great," said Crowley encouragingly.

The High Priest kicked his chair back and came around to the front of the desk. "I'll make the announcement to the school at once. In the meantime, Master Crowley, I'll have one of my boys bring you to my favorite spot: Dorian's Gray Room."

Crowley stared at him. He didn't ask what Dorian's Gray Room was, but he had a sinking suspicion his first guess was going to be right.

And it was.

The man behind the bar smiled as he pushed absinthe, sugar cube, and spoon in front of Crowley. "How is Mr. Fell these days?"

"Great," Crowley muttered, pouring the liquor over the sugar cube if only to do something with his hands. "He's lovely."

"Did you ever get him out from under our dear Robbie's spell?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "I don’t know about you, Gray, but personally I don’t see much use in feeling competitive with a man who’s been dead for a century.”

His smile turned into a grin. “You were jealous then.”

“And you were a prat then. At least one of us is capable of personal growth.” He mirrored his grin with mock sweetness. “How’s the portrait, Gray?”

Gray positively preened. "Ghastlier every day, darling. I thought you'd approve,”—he smirked.—“ _my lord_. What precisely is your title down in Hell, again, _Master_ Crowley?"

He glowered. "It would be rude to get pedantic about it. If they want to think they're hosting someone of consequence, I won't stop them. Hopefully Hell will reward them accordingly."

“How generous of you, my lord,” said Gray, and he went to the back of the bar to leave Crowley to stew in his irritation.

The feast didn't have any cannibalism, thankfully. Crowley didn't know how he'd have handled that on top of it being a party for him. Crowley was all for parties, as a rule, but he hadn't had many parties thrown in his honor over the millennia. He was the serpent hiding in the branches of a tree, a whisper in the ears of the men behind the thrones of humanity, and, if he was totally honest with himself, a walking bundle of insecurities and social anxiety with a speech impediment he'd never quite kicked. As vain as he could be, he wasn’t all that fond of being the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

He’d insisted Dahlia sit toward the head of the table near him, partly because it was the right thing to do, but mostly because it was fun to watch Lord Blackwood’s face as he wrestled with the fact that he was outranked and thus couldn’t do or say anything to keep this ordinary girl away from the head of the table with his important church leaders and his favorite students. The Weird Sisters glared enviously at Dahlia, and Crowley shot the girl an encouraging smile for everyone to see.

Nobody made him give a speech, thank— well, maybe it was Satan’s influence, he didn’t know. Probably it was that Lord Blackwood didn’t like him, and he wasn’t going to offer Crowley anything more than decorum dictated. 

After dinner and dessert, Gray had a dry bar set up in the foyer of the school. Enough people kept bringing Crowley drinks that he didn’t have to talk to him again, and he resisted the urge to let himself get drunk enough to embarrass himself as people kept introducing themselves and lavishing praise onto him.

It was nearly unbearable, but then a family of four witches broke up the monotony. Not at first, mind you. The matriarch, Zelda Spellman, was nearly as bad as Lord Blackwood. She spoke in haughty-drawn-out tones, her sister, niece, and nephew standing quietly behind her. The sister (Hilda) smiled awkwardly at Crowley, the niece (Sabrina) eyed him suspiciously, and the nephew (Ambrose) was doing his best not to look bored. 

Then Zelda asked Crowley about his accommodations, and Crowley replied, “Yeah, they’re good. It’s a bit of a throwback, isn’t it? Big old house with a lord at the head of it, modern fixtures jammed into something that looks like a Victorian’s idea of an old castle. It’s very _Dracula_ meets _Harry Potter_ , although I don’t quite know where the school-approved nightclub fits in. _Eyes Wide Shut_?”

“Out in the woods it can get a little _Wicker Man_ ,” Hilda piped up.

A look from Zelda silenced her, and the elder Spellman sister smiled hollowly at Crowley. “Forgive her, she’s only recently returned to the Church of Night. Although I had no idea demons were so well-versed in mortal culture.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley slowly. “It’s my job to know.” He looked behind Zelda at Hilda again. “Nic Cage _Wicker Man_ or the original?”

Sabrina smiled and nudged Hilda forward, and her aunt looked at Crowley in surprise. “I-I don’t know,” said Hilda. “Something in between, I think. It can get a bit camp, but not, ‘Not the bees!’ camp.”

For the first time all night, Crowley managed a genuine laugh. “Wish I had time to stick around and see _that_.” He paused. “Hang on, if you two are sisters, how come one of you is American and one of you is English?”

Zelda opened her mouth to tell Hilda not to talk, but Hilda was already beginning to relax. The next time someone offered Crowley a drink, he gave it to her, and eventually the two of them managed to sneak away into a quiet corner of the party and spent the rest of the night singing the praises of Schitt’s Creek.

Crowley’s report to Hell didn’t say anything disparaging about Zelda or Blackwood, because he knew how Hell could be, but if he’d known what an uproar he caused by directing Satan’s blessings toward a nobody child and an ex-excommunicate, he might have been pleased to discover that witches didn’t work too differently from mortals after all.


End file.
